


Double Solitaire

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependency, Incest, M/M, Mental Illness, Season 3, Trauma, dub con, mystery spot coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:09:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rules of double solitaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Solitaire

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the first wincest I've ever written, but it might as well be because the other one was about fried chicken and Vicodin so that hardly counts. I don't own Supernatural and none of this happened, although everything I said about double solitaire being an addictive sonafabitch one rarely wins is true. There are season two and three spoilers in here.

After the Mystery Spot, Sam is different. Dean can’t exactly place how, but there is a sudden, noticeable change in the way Sam deals with things, the way he moves, hunts, looks at Dean. There are a lot of times when Dean tries to bring it up, unearth the source of Sam's sullenness but it always ends the same way. He throws the curveball, just tosses it at Sam while they're side by side and silent in the Impala heading to some new shit kicking town, in the middle of a hunt, in the middle of one of the millions of identical Laundromats in the middle of middle America. It's never a good time. He says:

"How many Tuesdays, Sammy?" and merge onto a highway, fire a round of rocksalt, pour a cupful of detergent. It is never a good time. Sam always reacts the same way, freezes up and tenses, glaring furiously at Dean and going pale. His answers are varied but always equally cryptic. 

"Too many. Now keep your eyes on the road."

"A lot, now pay attention, it might hear us."

or, usually, just "shut up, Dean." It's always final, always the end. 

Rule one of playing Double Solitaire: Don't ask Sam about the Tuesdays, it makes him silent for hours. 

And then there’s the way he starts acting, attached to his brother like something horrible will happen to Dean the second he isn't three inches away from him. And Dean supposes it isn't too abnormal for Sam to act protective and clingy, from what he gathers about the Tuesdays spent investigating the Mystery Spot, the bits and pieces Sam reluctantly tells him. Sam never wants to go out at night anymore; he never wants to go to bars or restaurants. He's much more content to stay in the motel room and order takeout, pick half heartedly at it while he regards Dean meaningfully over the top of his Chinese, or burger, or fried chicken or whatever. All Sam wants to do anymore is play cards. Every time Dean mentions a pub, Sam will whine and make up stupid excuses until Dean just gives in. 

Sam is always _staring_ at him, and Dean feels sort of violated, sort of like Sam is judging him. Drinking him in like he's afraid he's going to _lose him._ It's the little things Dean notices and raises an eyebrow at, like the time he comes out of the shower dripping dilute blood onto the carpet after a hunt, and finds Sam wearing this navy hoodie sweatshirt that was _Dean's_ for like, the tenth time this week. 

"You like that sweatshirt." Dean says point blank, drying himself off and watching Sam _examine him_ with that desperate hungry sad glare. It makes his stomach crawl in this not all together bad way he likes to ignore because it had always made things easier in the past. 

Rule two of playing Double Solitaire: it’s always better to not feel things than kill himself over feeling them. 

"What? Yeah, I guess." Sam says, shrugging, regarding his arm, picking at lint on the sweatshirt. It has a blood stain on the elbow, and Dean briefly wonders if they own _anything_ that's not bloodstained. "So?"

"You've just been...wearing it a lot." Dean says. He widens his eyes, expecting Sam to read his mind or something. 

"Because it's yours." Sam shrugs again, says like it's nothing, like it's not weird. In reality, it's not nothing, it's everything. It could be, anyway, if Sam just goddamn let it, let it be. Dean's suddenly self conscious in nothing but his towel, and that hardly ever happens. He wonders if Sam's still looking, like he always is. "Wanna play cards?" Sam asks him them, scooting off the bed to the little, circular shitty motel table where he's already dealt two hands. Looks like Dean has no choice. 

"Sure Sam, sure I'll play you." He huffs, exasperated and uncomfortable in some inexplicable internal way. 

Dean rubs the back of his neck. He doesn't get his little brother. If he didn't know better, he'd think the guy was in love with him. But he does know better, he knows a hell of a lot about brothers, and loving them. He slides into sweatpants, catching a glimpse of Sam's huge, hulking form in the corner, biting it's lip and wanting something Dean doesn’t know if he can offer. 

~*~

There are a lot of card games in the world, and Sam and Dean know how to play almost all of them by the time they’re ten years old. Dean had to fashion ways to entertain Sam as a little kid when they were both scared shitless, alone for the third day in a row while their father was off battling monsters. By now, they are masters at keeping themselves occupied with nothing but each other and a few beat up decks of bicycles, dog eared corners from too many fierce, competitive games of slap jack. Yep, they know all the games there are to play, but nine times out of ten they play double solitaire, the best game because you can play it alone or with a partner, and it's all about speed, which Dean likes to think he understands. 

Dean guesses he sort of made the concept up, one lonely evening as a kid, passing the time playing games in the apartment with the busted heater and ants parading around the kitchen. Sam wanted to join him in a solitaire game. Everyone knows Dean could never say no to his baby brother, so before he knew it he was dealing another game, making up rules left and right so Sam would believe him that this was a real card game and not some fantasy story like everything else Dean fed him before bed. 

The initial, bare bones of Double Solitaire are simple. It's a normal solitaire game with the seven piles and the aces up front, but two people set up one deck each, and you can play on the other person's aces. It makes everything into a race, you both have the two of diamonds but only one ace is out, it's a tooth and nail fight to the finish to see who's faster. Years and years of playing this game gave birth to a whole, complicated list of rules and regulations. Every time someone new joined the game, Bobby or Caleb or Ellen or whoever they decided to initiate had to endure the whole, multifaceted outline of rules they'd invented. 

Sam and Dean are ultra fast, expert from years of staying up into the wee hours of the morning racing to the finish. They get into this obsessive groove of playing, where they have to play until they win, or "go out." A double solitaire game ends when neither player can move anymore, and the winner is the man with the most cards played in the middle. You can also win in in the event of going out, when both players get rid of their entire hand. Whoever does it first and slaps the last king played is the champion. 

The rules come hard and fast, like everything else Sam and Dean do.  
Rule 1. No playing with two hands. You play a card in the center, you have to reach back with the same hand to get the following card. Two hands is punishable by death, or at the very least, a good headlock or Indian burn.  
Rule 2. No playing off the back of the deck. If you know what the last card in your deck is and you want to play it, you had to thumb through the entire thing in sets of three to get to it, no sneaking the little mother fucker off of the back and slapping it down.  
Rule 3. Dean has to take his ring off. No exceptions; it hurt like a bitch in the case of a showdown, and it gives him an automatic advantage.  
Rule 4. Cheating in the form of shuffling your deck is allowed if both players agree the hand is shitty and needs to be rearranged. 

And on and on. 

There are so many rules and Sam and Dean take the whole thing so seriously that any newcomers are done after a few games, muttering "too goddamn fast you crazy motherfuckers" after both the Winchesters have smoked them, ten or so cards left each while their opponents are stuck panting with a half a deck. Quadruple Solitaire often became Triple, and Triple was always weeded back down to Double, just Sam and Dean playing, alone against each other and the world just like it always was. They were okay with that they supposed, other folks just slowed them down anyway. 

Sam and Dean play for hours some nights, throwing back beer after beer until they go out and it was safe to go to bed. Many a night Dean will close his eyes and hallucinate solitaire games, imagine putting red on black and red on black and goddamnit, he needs a red nine so he can get that eight of clubs off because he thinks the ace of spaces is under there and they both need that motherfucker _now._ It's a disease, playing solitaire. He loves it. 

Sam is all rarin' to go, fingers itching to play the ace that's already on top of his third pile. Dean rolls his eyes, taking his sweet time to organize each pile into perfect, solid neatness. He's neat about little else in his life aside from his car and his solitaire piles. Things have to be organized otherwise he'll mess up, and that's totally inexcusable. Ha hates when his trails got all up in each others business. 

"I'm sorry." He says sadly to Sam, looking at him across the table under a careful, pointed eyebrow. 

"For what?" Sam snapped, grabbing Dean's hand and holding it up, gesturing irritatedly to his ring. Dean smiles and slides it off slowly, licking his lips because competition makes him horny and that just pisses Sam off more if he's being coy about things. 

"Sorry that you're gonna get your ass kicked in about three point nine seconds, Sammy."

"Fuck you." Sam snarls, and with that they're off, bits held tight in teeth, down the stretch they come, away they go. 

It's a little bit like sex, Dean thinks. He can't fuck his little brother, Dean has come to terms with that, but beating him at solitaire is as close as they might get. At least he gets to see Sam all hot and bothered and breathless, writhing and cursing with his veins and muscles taut, ready for anything, ready to shout _fuck me_ even if he doesn't mean it the way Dean takes it. The way Dean wants to hear it. And Sam wonders why Dean gets a boner when they play like this. 

Rule three of playing Double Solitaire: He's the best but Sam is a close second, and if he isn't literally on his knees when they play, he isn't fast enough. He's best when he's on his knees in front of Sam, and that was all there is to it. 

That's all Dean ever really wants, to be on his knees in front of Sam. 

The cards come rapid-fire, one after the other. It's a good game because you have to be on top of two things at once, your own hand plus the cards outside in the middle. Neglect one and the other falls apart. They depend upon each other. 

"You're playing off the back of your deck asshole, that three is void, take it back."  
"shut up Sammy... _goddamnit_ I needed that fucking five of hearts"  
"read it and weep."  
"fucktard..hah! did you see that? I think you had, uh, both of those,"  
" _Just calm the heck down_." 

It always happens like this, banter, fast paced and furious and moving against each other, like sex, like fighting. Sam plays a handful of cards on the clubs and had his head thrown back laughing, like he hasn't laughed since the Mystery Spot, light actually goddamn _dancing_ in his eyes like fuckin' poetry. 

Dean wants to push their game off the table, swipe all those reds and blacks with one arm and grab Sam, shake him and say, "I missed you, man" or " where have you been?" or "You've been scaring me" or "why have you been looking as me that way, it's driving me insane"...anything but "how many Tuesdays, Sammy?"

Dean doesn't say that though, he says, "how do you like _them_ apples?" as he slaps down the ten and jack of hearts with a triumphant grunt. 

"I didn't even _have_ those, Dean" Sam gripes, panting breathlessly as he uncovers the seven of diamonds, and _he knows_ he has a black eight somewhere in that deck to get it off...Dean plays a whole mother fucking load out of his hand, cackling maniacally, down to his face cards. 

"What did I tell you, Sammy? " Dean smirks, kicking back in his chair. They both know it's over, no going out this time. Dean swigs his beer, watching Sam tear through his deck once more. No go. 

"Done?"

"Done." Sam sighs, tossing his hand down in the table, glaring at Dean. "Play again?" 

And of course, they do. They always play again, it's an addiction. If they don't go out on the first time, (which they rarely do), it's an obligation to shuffle, re-deal, and start over. Whoever lost has a death wish out for the other one, and is bound to demand another game. Sometimes they just get on a losing streak and will play long into the night, crappy hand after crappy hand. Sometimes they just can't win, and it's over; Sam and Dean off to bed unsatisfied at four in the morning, pissed off and cursing the card-gods or whoever is preventing good, solid going out. 

That was the fourth rule of playing Double Solitaire: sometime you just couldn't win. 

This is shaping up to be one of those nights, from the looks of it. Sam and Dean have bitched and laughed and bickered through five or so fruitless hands and more than half a eighteen pack, each winning a few but never going out. Sam is pissed off and determined, dealing yet another seven piles while Dean broods in his chair, nursing the neck of his fourth, fifth, tenth, who cares, car of Pabst's Blue Ribbon. "Another go, Sammy?" His words are starting to slur, really? It's only nine PM, but when he checks the cruel glare of the digital clock it says half past one. 

"Fuck yes. I want to go out." 

"Dude, let's call it a night. My hand's sore and I'm beat." Dean watches Sam, furiously dealing, hair mussed and all over the place, sitting there in _Dean's sweatshirt_ of all things. Dean is suddenly choked up, a tightening in his chest driving all sense and control out of his body, and he has to clench his fists onto the arms of his chair. Sam looks briefly up at his brother, eyes flashing like he thinks cards is like sex, too. Sometimes Dean doesn't feel so alone. Sometimes he wonders if he really does know better. 

"No," Sam says urgently, obsessed. Dean understands, he's been there, hell bent on going out no matter how many more games and beers it took to get there. He rolls his eyes, pushing his sleeves up once again and buckling down for yet another game, already sizing up Sam's cards to see what they were going to have to race to play. Sometimes you just keep on playing, even if you couldn't win. 

That was the fifth rule of playing Double Solitaire: even if you can’t win, sometimes you can’t quit. You have to play another game. 

They are in the heat of it, and Dean is at the top of his game. The beer made his senses duller, sure, but he's still just as fast, beating Sam to the three of spades and the six of diamonds in a few glorious seconds.

"How does that feel?" He quips, smirking complacently over his mastery. Sam isn’t floundering yet, they’re neck in neck, and Dean is on his knees, always on his knees.

"You just wait." Sam starts, uncovering one pile at a time, expertly switching cards from one lengthy stack to another. "You'll see."

"Right, right, remember, _I'm the one_ whose up two games." 

"One of them was a tie, douche."

"Only because you’re a _cheater_ , I saw them two hands, Sammy." 

Sam stops, staring at Dean in that way he's been doing ever since the Mystery Spot, like he's crazy, like he's hungry, only _more_ because he's half drunk, unguarded, hair floppy and a little dirty in his face. _Two hands_ Dean's thinking _back of the deck._ Anything, anything other than this. Anything less crazy than Sam looking at him like he _wants_ him. 

"What?" he snaps. "Sand in your vagina?" 

"One hundred and fifty two, Dean, and six months." He says it solemnly like he sobered up in five seconds and Dean can barely keep up. His brother's not looking at him anymore, he's playing cards, shuffling through his deck and playing the queen of hearts, and _damn_ Dean _had_ that one, too. 

 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean's playing sloppy now, forgetting to move stuff and leaving kings un-played when he has space to bring them down. He loses the six, seven, eight of clubs to Sam in rapid succession. He had every goddamn one of those. 

"One hundred and fifty two Tuesdays. And sixth months. Six months without you." Sam says. His hands are flying, he's uncovered everything now and playing half of it, nine, ten, jack, three, four, five, move that nine of diamonds onto the other ten so he can play the nine of hearts, wam, bam, thank you, Dean. Are you still on your knees for me? Are you ready for this? Are you still sorry? Do you know why I look at you that way? Do you _still think you know better?_

Dean's just sitting there, staring. Trying to comprehend, six months, how long, six whats? Sam's wearing his sweatshirt and he wished he didn't care about that so much. Things are falling together but it's hard to believe that, especially when you know, when you _know.._.

He tries to play a card but Sam beats him. They're close, though, no cards underneath the piles and they might go out, they might really do it this time. 

_God, please_ Dean thinks, and he never thinks about God. 

"Did you hear me?" Sam says and he sounds crazy, as crazy as he's looked these last few weeks, clinging to Dean and staring him down and wearing his goddamn sweatshirt. Wanting him. 

"Yeah, yeah I heard you,Are you gonna play that jack of spades of not?" Dean says desperately, just wanting Sam to shut up, shut up so his stomach would stop aching like that. Desperate because he has the queen and he’ll do anything to play a card that counts.

"I...I can't." Sam sputters. "The ten's on top. Can't get it off." He's a little breathless, staring at the cards disbelievingly. "Dammit. I can't believe..."

"I'm stuck." Dean says. His voice is cold, detached, like it doesn't belong to him. He is so, so sad all of the sudden, like all the beer he's guzzled is actually poison that was just kicking in, and he's sick, sicker than he's ever been. Sometimes you play and play, but you just can't win. 

"Me too." Sam says quietly. 

~*~

All the Laundromats are exactly the same in middle America. Dean has been playing Double Solitaire all his life, this game meant for one person that Sam forced his way into, because that's what Sam _does_ , that's all Dean has ever wanted him to do. 

_Please_. Dean never thinks about God. 

The sixth rule of playing Double Solitaire: He can never leave Sam out of anything. He can’t do it. Dean would rather die in a year and burn in hell for all eternity than live one second more without his little brother. He knows that now, he's made that decision. Sam’s the only thing in his entire life that’s always been his. 

Sam is _really_ looking a him, stripping him and taking him apart with his eyes, begging for something. Dean wants to scream, throw Sam to the dirty, threadbare carpet and deck him, yell, _what the hell do you want from me, Sammy? what do you want me to say to that? Why do we keep on playing if we know we're never gonna win?_

 

And Sam just keeps on regarding him like that, critically, longingly, like watching Dean die had starved him and now he needs a fix of something.Dean can't take it, it's making him insane. He gets up in a huff, knocking cards down in the process, storming to the other side of the room because that's all there is to go. He rakes a hand through his hair, ruffling it just for the sake of doing something, anything so he wouldn't have to look at Sam. Dean can always tell when they’re about to fight, and if it's going to be a guns blazing, teeth bared, all holds barred sort of throw down, or a petty argument that'll blow over two hours later.

He's scared now, terrified because he _doesn't_ know what's coming. It isn’t a fight brewing; it’s something else, a storm of a different kind and he's drunk and sick on poison and all he can think of is six, six months and Sam all alone. He's trying to remember, but he's forgotten the rules. 

"Are you going to say anything?" Sam asks, voice thin and reedy and almost pissed off but not quite. It sounds like the air forced out of a bagpipe, shrill and music all at once. Dean wants to kill him, shut him off, shut him up. "You've been wanting to know." Sam reminds him.

"Yeah, you didn't want to talk about it." Dean snaps back, pacing back towards his brother, trying not to turn his back like he sometimes does. This whole thing is so messed up.

"Yeah, well, try watching me die over 100 times and spend six months without me and try having a big touchy feely heart to heart about it one week later with someone who still thinks it's Wednesday. Sorry if I wasn't about to spill my heart Dean, but I've..." Sam said all in a rush, and by the end if it he's panting, eyes flashing with something, _something_ not anger and Dean just wishes they would fight, that this is a fight so he'd at least know what to do, how to act, what to say. 

"I...I'm sorry. You've been acting weird." He finally chokes out, and it sounds wrong, inappropriate. He wishes he could take it back, they're not a fucking married couple for Christ's sake. Sam can act however the hell he wants. 

Dean’s still fumbling over this when he actually sees something searing and hot snap and flash inside Sam’s eyes. A snipped wire and he upturns the table and sends fifty two cards fluttering into the air like a cage full of maimed doves. 

Dean flinches away, gearing his arm up for a fight and looking almost relieved for it, so he's fresh out of ideas when Sam hugs him instead, trapping his arms against his sides and just holding on, rubbing his face into Dean's neck, breathing hard, squeezing too tight, just inhaling him, reminding himself, he's here, he's alive, he's not dead yet. 

"Wha...what? Sam?" Dean struggles for a second and then gives in, letting Sam breathe all over him, smelling like beer and sweat and shampoo. Dean's never had a home, it's always been the Impala, motels, Bobby's garage and more motels, but the first thing he thinks when Sam holds him tight like this is _I'm home_. 

"I just don't want you to die." Sam says plainly, no frills or bells and whistles, right into Dean's neck. His breath is warm and damp and it feels nice, it really does. Dean's not used to having Sam close like this, so he's halfway between basking in it and recoiling in shock. Sam lets Dean free up his arms so he can hold him back, rubbing his hands all over his spine, patting him gently and sort of awkwardly, whispering, “ _I know Sammy, it's okay, it's okay.”_

This is a little weird, Dean knows it, but no one's watching, no one's here to see and their Dad's dead, so who gives a fuck, right?

When Sam pulls away he looks at Dean, gently, eyes hooded. It freaks Dean out, definitely, but he holds on, holds right on through it, through the coming storm when Sam dips down and kisses the corner of his mouth. It makes sense, kissing Sam, letting their tongues curl and lick together, this quiet, sloppy, drunk thing that makes Dean's knees buckle. 

It makes sense because ever since Sam died, all Dean's wanted is every single part of him, to be kissing him and fucking him and letting himself be fucked by him. So Dean dies one hundred and fifty two times, Sam watching every single one of them, it makes sense that he'd want the same thing. 

It all comes together, every rule that Dean's ever learned about Double Solitaire. It was a game for one made into a bed for two. 

"We should have done this sooner," Dean pants into Sam's mouth. He has him on his back on the bed, sliding trembling hands under his own goddamn sweatshirt on Sam's huge chest. Kissing him is how he always thought it would be, easy, it's his little brother, after all. Easy, addicting, frustrating, never enough, way too much, _everything._ He'll never win but he has to keep playing. 

"Or never, not at all." 

"Don't fucking say that Sam, don't make me second guess...."

"just shut up shutupshutup." Sam breathes, and drags Dean back to his mouth, kissing him hard, commanding, making this noise into Dean's lips that makes Dean just about die, his chest heaving, mind changing into static. Girls always tell him he's a good kisser, but he feels like everything he ever knew just went out the door, like Sam robbed him of anything certain and solid, messed up his neat little solitaire piles and he’s just floundering this time. Too much tongue, too sloppy and hungry and he doesn’t even care. 

This is a little weird, Dean knows it, but no one's watching, no one's here to see and their Dad's dead, so who gives a fuck, right? 

"Roll over, Sammy."

"Why?" 

"Because, just do it." Dean says gruffly, sounding way too desperate and Sam seems to like that. He takes direction, moving onto his stomach so Dean can see _it_ , that huge, whorled pink and white scar right in the center of Sam's back, the scar left by what _killed_ him. Dean presses his mouth open and wet onto it, sucking at the marbled flesh. Sam gasps, hard and wriggling against the bed.

 

"This _killed_ you." Dean wheezes. He's crying now and he can't believe it, can't figure out where this came from or why or how it's happening. His cheeks are wet and all he wants to do is stop time, crawl inside of Sam and die _there_ , not in hell, not alone playing Solitaire the right way. 

" _Goddamnit_ Dean" Sam says and whips around, throwing himself full force at his brother and kissing him all over, sharp and metallic tasting, so hungry and frantic against him, one hundred and fifty two deaths. Dean wanted him so _badly_ just after once, and Sam, Sam can't take it. Sam's never coming back, not after this. He won't settle for anything less than Dean panting his name right back at him, punctuating things like _please_ and _anything_ and _I'll let you and fucking Christ, Sammy, I.._.

And that's enough to kill anyone. 

"God, I've been watching you for weeks, all day, fuckin' forever just trying to figure out how I should _do_ this," Sam whispers. 

"God? I never think about God." Dean laughs, words slurring and really? It's only nine o' clock. 

Quadruple Solitaire often became Triple, and Triple was always weeded back down to Double, just Sam and Dean playing, alone against each other and the world just like it always was. They were okay with that they supposed, other folks just slowed them down anyway.


End file.
